TLA ANNUAL CONFERENCE EXCLUSIVE SAMPLER UPCOMING FROM ORBIT & REDHOOK 5/11/21 6/1/21 6/8/21 6/15/21 Son of the Storm For the Wolf The Jasmine The World Gives Way Suyi Davies Hannah Whitten Throne Marissa Levien Okungbowa Orbit • pg. 13 Tasha Suri Redhook • pg. 43 Orbit • pg. 1 Orbit • pg. 28 8/17/21 9/21/21 9/28/21 10/19/21 Wildwood The Body Scout The Seven Sistersong Whispers Lincoln Michel Visitations of Lucy Holland Willa Reece Orbit • pg. 72 Sydney Burgess Redhook • pg. 91 Redhook • pg. 62 Andy Marino Redhook • pg. 80 WWW.ORBITBOOKS.NET 1 Danso The rumours broke slowly but spread fast, like bushfire from a rain- cloud. Bassa’s central market sparked and sizzled, as word jumped from lip to ear, lip to ear, speculating. The people responded minimally at first: a shift of the shoulders, a retying of wrappers. Then murmurs rose, until they matured into a buzzing that swept through the city, swinging from stranger to stranger and stall to stall, everyone opening conversation with whispers of Is it true? Has the Soke Pass really been shut down? Danso waded through the clumps of gossipers, sweating, cursing his decision to go through the central market rather than the mainway. He darted between throngs of oblivious citizens huddled around vendors and spilling into the pathway. “Leave way, leave way,” he called, irritated, as he shouldered through bodies. He crouched, wriggling his lean frame underneath a large table that reeked of pepper seeds and fowl shit. The ground, paved with baked earth, was not supposed to be wet, since harmattan season was soon to begin. But some fool had dumped water in the wrong place, and red mud eventually found a way into Danso’s sandals. Someone else had abandoned a huge stack of yam sacks right in the middle of the pathway and gone off to do moons knew what, so that Danso was forced to clamber over yet another obstacle. He found a large brown stain on his wrappers there- after. He wiped at the spot with his elbow, but the stain only spread. Great. Now not only was he going to be the late jali novitiate, he was going to be the dirty one, too. SonOfStorm_TPtextF1.indd 9 1/27/21 12:35:07 PM 10 Suyi Davies Okungbowa If only he could’ve ridden a kwaga through the market, Danso thought. But markets were foot traffic only, so even though jalis or their novitiates rarely moved on foot, he had to in this instance. On this day, when he needed to get to the centre of town as quickly as possible while raising zero eyebrows, he needed to brave the shortest path from home to city square, which meant going through Bassa’s most motley crowd. This was the price he had to pay for missing the city crier’s call three whole times, therefore setting himself up for yet another late arrival at a manda- tory event—​­in this case, a Great Dome announcement. Missing this impromptu meeting would be his third infraction, which could mean expulsion from the university. He’d already been given two strikes: first, for repeatedly arguing with Elder Jalis and trying to prove his superior intelligence; then more recently, for being caught poring over a restricted manuscript that was supposed to be for only two sets of eyes: emperors, back when Bassa still had them, and the archivist scholars who didn’t even get to read them except while scribing. At this rate, all they needed was a reason to send him away. Expulsion would definitely lose him favour with Esheme, and if anything happened to their intendedship as a result, he could consider his life in this city officially over. He would end up exactly like his daa—​­a disgraced outcast—​­and Habba would die first before that happened. The end of the market pathway came within sight. Danso burst out into mainway one, the smack middle of Bassa’s thirty mainways that crisscrossed one another and split the city perpendicular to the Soke mountains. The midday sun shone brighter here. Though shoddy, the market’s thatch roofing had saved him from some of the tropical sun, and now out of it, the humid heat came down on him unbearably. He shaded his eyes. In the distance, the capital square stood at the end of the mainway. The Great Dome nestled prettily in its centre, against a backdrop of Bas- sai roun ded-​­corner mudbrick architecture, like a god surrounded by its worshippers. Behind it, the Soke mountains stuck their raggedy heads so high into the clouds that they could be seen from every spot in Bassa, hunching protectively over the mainland’s shining crown. What took his attention, though, was the crowd in the mainway, leading SonOfStorm_TPtextF1.indd 10 1/27/21 12:35:07 PM SON OF THE STORM 11 up to the Great Dome. The wide street was packed full of mainlanders, from where Danso stood to the gates of the courtyard in the distance. The only times he’d seen this much of a gathering were when, every once in a while, troublemakers who called themselves the Coalition for New Bassa staged protests that mostly ended in pockets of riots and skirmishes with Bassai civic guards. This, however, seemed quite nonviolent, but that did nothing for the air of tension that permeated the crowd. The civic guards at the gates weren’t letting anyone in, obvi ously— only the ruling councils; government officials and ward leaders; members of select guilds, like the jali guild he belonged to; and civic guards them- selves were allowed into the city centre. It was these select people who then took whatever news was disseminated back to their various wards. Only during a mooncrossing festival were regular citizens allowed into the courtyard. Danso watched the crowd for a while to make a quick decision. The thrumming vibe was clearly one of anger, perplexity, and anxiety. He spotted a few people wailing and rolling in the dusty red earth, calling the names of their loved ones—​­those stuck outside the Pass, he surmised from their cries. Since First Ward was the largest commercial ward in Bassa, businesses at the sides of the mainway were hubbubs of hissed con- versation, questions circulating under breaths. Danso caught some of the whispers, squeaky with tension: The drawbridges over the moats? Rolled up. The border gates? Sealed, iron barriers driven into the earth. Only a ten- person team of earthworkers and ironworkers can open it. The pace of their speech was frantic, fast, faster, everyone wondering what was true and what wasn’t. Danso cut back into a side street that opened up from the walls along the mainway, then cut into the corridors between private yards. Up here in First Ward, the corridors were clean, the ground was of polished earth, and beggars and rats did not populate here as they did in the outer wards. Yet they were still dark and largely unlit, so that Danso had to squint and sometimes reach out to feel before him. Navigation, however, wasn’t a problem. This wasn’t his first dance in the mazy corridors of Bassa, and this wasn’t the first time he was taking a shortcut to the Great Dome. Some househands passed by him on their way to errands, blending SonOfStorm_TPtextF1.indd 11 1/27/21 12:35:07 PM 12 Suyi Davies Okungbowa into the poor light, their red immigrant anklets clacking as they went. These narrow walkways built into the spaces between courtyards were natural terrain for their caste—​­Yelekuté, the lower of Bassa’s two inden- tured immigrant castes. The nation didn’t really fancy anything undesir- able showing up in all the important places, including the low- ​­brown complexion that, among other things, easily signified desertlanders. The more desired high-​­brown Potokin were the chosen desertlanders allowed on the mainways, but only in company of their employers. Ordinarily, they wouldn’t pay him much attention. It wasn’t a rare sight to spot people of other castes dallying in one backyard escapade or another. But today, hurrying past and dripping sweat, they glanced at Danso as he went, taking in his yellow- and- maroon tie- and- dye wrap- pers and the fat, single plait of hair in the middle of his head, the two signs that indicated he was a jali novitiate at the university. They consid- ered his comp lexion—​­not dark enough to be wearing that dress in the first place; hair not curled tightly enough to be puremain lander—​­and concluded, decided, that he was not Bassai enough. This assessment they carried out in a heartbeat, but Danso was so used to seeing the whole process happen on people’s faces that he knew what they were doing even before they did. And as always, then came the next part, where they tried to put two and two together to decide what caste he belonged to. Their confused faces told the story of his life. His clothes and hair plait said jali novitiate, that he was a scholar-​­historian enrolled at the University of Bassa, and therefore had to be an Idu, the only caste allowed to attend said university. But his too-​­light complexion said Shashi caste, said he was of a poisoned union between a mainlander and an outlander and that even if the moons intervened, he would always be a disgrace to the mainland, an outcast who didn’t even deserve to stand there and exist.